The Last Confederate (22 page)

None of the men appreciated Sharp or his singing, but they needed his skillet. Milton himself had owned one once, but it had been stolen. He’d been carrying it on a march, its handle down the barrel of his rifle, sticking out like a huge black sunflower, and a cavalryman had simply lifted it and carried the pan off. Now four men depended on that skillet: Sharp, Calhoun, Peyton Law, a twenty-two-year-old schoolteacher, and Lew Avery, a dark-faced man of thirty who had been a gambler on a riverboat. All four looked half starved, for they had lived on short rations for months—eating everything from green apples to unripe corn. It had made havoc out of their digestive systems, all of them suffering from dysentery to some degree.

When the food was cooked, the soldiers sat around and ate hungrily, washing the meal down with sips of river water from their canteens. They had finished and lit up their pipes or taken a chaw, as the case was, when Captain Wickham approached and spoke loudly enough for most of the men of Company A to hear. “All right, boys, you can rest easy. Our reinforcements from Richmond are here. You may have heard that the Confederate Congress passed a conscription law. Well, the conscripts are at the gate, and I expect you will go and
exchange
your old equipment for their new, but let me give you a word of warning. Some of them are substitutes. Some wealthy boy was drafted and rather than join our party himself, he paid another fellow to take his place. Now, there’s just one thing about these substitutes—
we need them bad!
So you can use a sharp tongue on them, but you are
not
to
harm them bodily, nor after this first day humiliate them—and you had better heed what I say. Now, let your eyes feast upon them, for they come through yonder gates.”

Wickham waved his hat toward a group of fifteen men who were marched like harried chickens to the camp. The third lieutenant stopped and yelled: “These fifteen are for you, Lieutenant Wilson!” Then cutting out the assigned group, he herded the rest of his flock to the next brigade.

“Mind what I said,” Captain Wickham warned his men, and walked off. As soon as the captain disappeared around a clump of trees, the volunteers of Company A descended like vultures on the wide-eyed and helpless recruits. One conscript would be surrounded by four or five of the company, and in no time he would be stripped of his new uniform and forced to put on the lice-infested rags of his tormentors. The veterans went through the conscript’s haversacks and took coffee, tobacco, food, and anything else they fancied.

Some of the conscripts resisted, but it was no fair contest. They had already been derided as latecomers to the fight, and there was little spirit left in them—except for a few.

Lafe Sharp had swooped upon the conscripts like a whirlwind, depriving several of choice items, at last coming to a small man with a huge mustache. The newcomer looked innocently at Sharp and said, “Hidee.”

He was carrying a full haversack, and Lafe reached down to snatch it, but somehow found himself on the ground looking up. His head throbbed and the sky whirled. He crawled to his feet and looked around to find the Regulars laughing at him. He turned to look at the recruit, and realized that the fellow had used the musket in his hand, leaving a deep cut in Sharp’s skull.

“You didn’t say
please,
” the little man remarked.

“I’ll
kill
you!” Lafe yelled, but as he reached for the throat of the smaller man, Sharp’s bare toes were smashed by the butt of the recruit’s rifle, and he fell to the ground cursing and holding his foot.

“My name’s Dooley Young,” the recruit said. “Come to help you fellers fight the Yankees.”

“Hey, Dooley!” Les Satterfield, a tall, thin boy with stringy yellow hair, came up to thrust out his hand. “We was wonderin’ when you’d get here.” He laughed at Sharp, who was glaring at the man. “Lafe, this here is my cousin. Don’t reckon it’d profit you none to mess with him. He’s so ornery a rattlesnake bit him five times and died!”

Just at that moment a harsh voice drew every eye to where a hulking recruit stood, holding a tall young man by the arm. “And this here,” he rasped, “is one of them paid substitutes—of which there ain’t nothin’ lower—’ceptin’ the yellow dog who paid him!”

Tom Winslow had been alerted by Captain Wickham to keep close to the men to see that none of the new recruits were abused. He had kept still while the veterans had helped themselves to the newcomers’ fresh supplies, but now he started to move forward, for he recognized the speaker as Studs Mellon—and the pug was holding Thad Novak by the arm! Tom was brought to a stop, however, when Dooley blocked his way and whispered, “Better let it go jest now, Tom.”

The others moved to surround the pair, and Dooley quickly explained the circumstances to Tom. “He done it for Toby. You know them two is great friends. But they ain’t no way that you nor me can fight the boy’s battles, Tom. He’ll have to prove hisself to the men.”

Tom realized that truth, and stood with the rest, listening to Mellon. “And this here Yankee boy ain’t jest no ordinary paid-for substitute—oh, no! Tell these fellers what you done with the bounty money, Novak!”

Thad’s face was pale as he faced them all, held in place by a massive hand. The burly Mellon had tormented him ever since the group had been assembled at Richmond. Somehow the bully had discovered the details of Thad’s enlistment, probably through Sut Franklin, a crony of his, and he had never let the matter rest.

“Why, he took that money and bought a slave loose with it!” Mellon bellowed. “Reckon he couldn’t steal him and git him up North, so he done jined up jest to git the job done.”

A mutter ran through the group, and Thad saw distrust, even hatred, in the eyes of some of the veterans. He lifted his head and stared back at them, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him show any fear. Will Henry, one of the few aristocrats who had entered the army as a private, recognized Novak at once. He was now second sergeant, and spent much of his time with Tom. He had been at the New Year’s party when Wickham had made his bet with Beau Beauchamp. Henry, still hopelessly in love with Belle, had followed the history of the young Yankee who had nearly won the shooting match. He knew that Sky Winslow valued the young man, and he knew as well that if something didn’t happen, Novak would have a wretched time in the army. A thought occurred to him.

“Wait a minute, boys,” Henry said; and winking at Tom and Dooley, he stepped forward. “Before you start in on any of these recruits, I think we better check them out. If they can shoot, I don’t give a hoot why they came. McClellan is headed for Virginia with the biggest army anybody ever saw, and we lost some good men at Shiloh—and I want all the firepower we can get in Company A.”

“Aw, I can outshoot any Yankee that ever lived!” Lafe snarled. He was, as a matter of fact, a deadly shot, and Will Henry saw his chance.

“Wouldn’t be so quick to brag, Lafe, especially about a man you never shot against,” Sergeant Henry replied mildly.

Lafe Sharp had always hated Will Henry, as he hated all aristocrats, so he looked at him and grunted, “That wouldn’t take long to prove.”

Tom Winslow added quickly, “Might not be a bad idea, Corporal. Let’s have these recruits fire off a few rounds. Need to see how good they are, anyway.”

Lafe grinned at his friends, and then saw that Novak was
carrying a new Whitworth rifle, a parting gift from Sky Winslow, and he snarled, “Hey, nigger-lover, that rifle gun’s too good fer you. How ’bout a little bet—my gun agin’ yours?”

Dooley interrupted. “Why his gun is worth five of that old musket you got! Make him throw in some boot, Thad.”

Thad had an idea, and said, “I’ll put up my gun against yours—and the only boot you have to anti-up is to give me back all my things.”

“It’s a bet!” Lafe shouted gleefully. “Come on, boys, I’m gonna have me a new rifle gun!” Tom and Dooley followed the group to the shooting range, an open field with several huge oak stumps, some as far as half a mile away. Sergeant Henry sent Peyton Law to set up some empty cans, waving him back to a distance of two hundred yards. “Take your shot, Lafe,” he said.

Sharp took a steady rest, knocked the can off, then turned and bragged, “Beat that, nigger-lover!”

Thad stared at him and shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got twelve-year-olds that can make that shot. I thought this was a grown-up shootin’ match.” He whirled around and shouted, “Move that can back!”

Peyton moved another fifty yards and paused.

“Move back!” Thad yelled. Three times he had Peyton set the mark back until the distance was well over five hundred yards. The can was a mere speck, and a murmur of doubt rose from the soldiers.

“He’s bluffin’, boys!” Lafe laughed.

Thad knew that Sharp was half right, for it was a difficult shot. He had hit harder ones, but he had also missed easier ones. He loaded the Whitworth so quickly that a gasp went up from the men, and Milton Calhoun remarked, “If he shoots as good as he loads, he’s a wonder!”

Nothing short of a great shot will do me any good,
Thad thought. So he did what he had often done—took a snapshot of the target. He was fairly certain of hitting the mark if he took a steady rest, bracing his rifle against a tree or a
stump, but there was no tree nearby. He decided to gamble. He had long ago discovered that it did little good to try to hold a rifle steady for any long period of time. The weight of the heavy weapon inevitably pulled his arms down, causing the rifle to waver. But for one split second, he could hold the rifle as steadily as if it were encased in rock—and that was what he did.

Sweeping the Whitworth up, he caught the dim vision of the distant can, froze the motion of the rifle, and instantly pulled the trigger. The explosion and sudden firing caught the men off guard, for they were waiting for a careful shot. A cry from the lips of Dooley rang out: “He done ’er!” and a spontaneous cheer went up.

“It’s gonna be all right, Tom,” Dooley remarked after the men had dispersed. The two had watched carefully as the men of the company had gathered around Thad, marveling at the Whitworth and demanding to try it. Thad had surrendered the rifle, and watched while the veterans took turns firing shots, like children with a new toy. Lafe had thrown Thad’s uniform and haversack at him, along with his promised rifle, but Thad had tossed the rifle back.

Tom nodded, and gave a hard glance at Studs Mellon. “There’ll be some trouble from that one.” A thought flashed through Tom’s mind. “I wonder if Beau will remember Thad.”

He found out very quickly, for that afternoon the new captain and his two lieutenants held an inspection of the new men. And as soon as Beauchamp saw Thad, the first lieutenant’s face reddened. He shot a look at Wickham, who had also seen the new conscript but gave no sign of recognition. Tom had informed his brother of Novak’s presence, so Mark was watching Beauchamp carefully.
Got to be sure he doesn’t abuse the boy,
he thought, seeing the anger in Beauchamp’s face.

Captain Wickham addressed the company in his off-hand fashion, standing loosely in front of them. He was still uncomfortable with his promotion, but he said with an authority
that was unusual for him, “Men, I have some good news for you—we’re going back home. Our brigade is being sent to reinforce General Joe Johnston.” He waited until the cheers died down, and added, “It would be foolish for me to give you any speeches. You proved at The Hornet’s Nest that you’re fighting men. But we’ve got our work cut out for us! All I will say is, you’re the best company in the army, so learn to live together. We have a long way to go in this war, and the man standing next to you is the one who’ll be at your side when we go against the Yankees. They’ve got more men than we have, but I think we’re
better
than they are—so let’s make Company A a smooth fighting machine!”

“That was a good speech, Captain,” Beau remarked as the officers walked off. “I didn’t know you were so eloquent. Good thing you’re not as smooth where the ladies are concerned.”

Vance looked at him sharply, and noted that Beauchamp was in a good humor. “Who knows, maybe this practice will help me, Beau.”

Beauchamp changed the subject, saying casually, “I see that Dooley Young finally made it—and that young fellow your father’s so high on—Novak, is it? That was quite a sample of his shooting at that party, wasn’t it?” He saw that the other two were relieved at his mention of the affair, and grinned, “I was upset with that match, Vance, but we need all the marksmen we can get.”

Later, after Beau left, Captain Wickham commented to Mark, “Now, that’s a relief! I was afraid Beau would take it wrong—Novak’s coming, I mean.”

“If Thad takes to soldiering as quickly as he did to farming, he’ll show them all the way, Captain!”

The brigade pulled out two days later, beginning a slow march back to Virginia. The wounded were transported in wagons, which moved slowly because of the muddy roads. And it was on this long march that Thad learned what it was to be a soldier in the Army of Northern Virginia.

He and Dooley soon got rid of all excess equipment. They
discovered that the heavy boots they had been issued were not conducive to long marches, and both soon obtained strong brogans with broad bottoms and big flat heels. They also got rid of the heavy overcoats, exchanging them for short-waisted gray jackets. In addition, they were now wearing broad-brimmed soft hats that protected them from the hot summer sun. By the time the two arrived in Virginia, they were reduced to the minimum—one hat, one jacket, one shirt, one pair of pants, one pair of drawers, one pair of shoes, and one pair of socks. Their baggage included one blanket, one rubber blanket, and one haversack. The haversack contained smoking tobacco and a pipe (for Dooley), a small piece of soap, with temporary additions of apples, persimmons, blackberries and other commodities they picked up along the way. No soldiers ever marched with less to encumber them, and none ever marched faster or held out longer!

As the days passed, Thad found himself becoming accustomed to the new lifestyle. Somehow he and Dooley joined with Milton Calhoun’s mess, and after weeks on the road, the routine had become so regular that Thad felt a part of it. There were still those who despised him for being a substitute, but there was no time for them to do much about it.